


just a knick

by choose_joy



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Cooking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Zolf and Wilde's friendship is one of my favorite things, spoilers for 125
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choose_joy/pseuds/choose_joy
Summary: working title: eat, pray, love (but make it sad)after the events of 125, zolf handles his grief in the kitchen.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	just a knick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohallows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohallows/gifts).



Zolf has always found cooking to be therapeutic. 

Some of his fondest memories from his childhood are of cooking a big pot of curry with Feryn from the various vegetables they were able to scrounge up that day. No matter how much (or little) they put in, it always managed to taste good.

Looking back on it, it probably had something to do with cooking with the person he trusted most in the world.

So, when Zolf gets the news, eighteen months later, that Hamid is back... he slinks off to the kitchen.

To be fair, it's not just Hamid-- someone else is coming with him. Azu. They’ve not met yet, but it seems like she’s a good one. Ed, too, although he’s not coming back to Japan with them, for some reason.

Sasha’s not with them.

No one has been able to tell him what happened, why she’s not with them. By all accounts, she should be. The only reason she wouldn’t be is if she were dead and... Zolf doesn’t let himself go down that train of thought.

All of this to say, there are certainly some emotions he needs to work though, so off to the kitchen he heads. Along the way, he mentally catalogues the ingredients at his disposal and cobbles together a meal that will take him a good length of time. Gods know he needs it.

When he arrives in the kitchen, it's easy to start pulling ingredients-- flour, yeast, salt, sugar, and saffron from the pantry. Eggs, milk, butter, and a lemon from the ice box join them on the counter. Going through the motions of making the dough is easy and familiar: the scent of the saffron smells like home, and the repetitive motion of kneading calms him. 

When the dough is elastic and smooth, he sets it aside to rise and gets started on the stew, using the largest pot in their little kitchen. The carrots and celery he dices with no problem, so he starts on the onion. 

In retrospect, the onion might have been a bad idea.

When the tears start to prickle in the corner of his eyes, he thinks he can blame it on the onion, but they grow out of control so quickly that his eyes cloud over and, despite his muscle memory, he promptly knicks his finger.

That’s what sets it off, in the end. 

He curses up a storm, using language he hasn’t used since the navy. At least if he’s angry, he can’t be so bloody  _ sad.  _

The thing is, he  _ is  _ sad. And he’s angry. And he’s disappointed, and guilty, and  _ lonely. _

He doesn’t realize he’s on the floor until he feels a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. The tears keep flowing, but they’re less frantic now. 

Wilde doesn’t say anything, for once in his life, and Zolf couldn’t be more grateful. Instead, they both just wait for Zolf’s tears to stop. The knick on his finger has long since stopped bleeding, though he keeps it clutched close to his chest. Once the tears have dried too, Zolf breaks the silence.

“Sasha never would’ve sliced her hand open like that.”

“Perhaps not,” Wilde replies, “But you’re not Sasha.”

“I left her, Wilde,” Zolf responds, “I left her and I left Hamid and they needed me.”

“You left them because you needed to,” is the response, surprisingly genuine, “Sasha understood. Hamid, too, although he may have been a bit more vocal about his distaste for your departure.”

Zolf hums his response, and it's a bit longer before he ckimbs to his feet, moving towards the discarded onion to throw it away and start chopping a new one. He lets the feeling of cooking wash over him again as he sautés the vegetables and adds the stock and meat to the pot. In the background, Wilde is humming something under his breath. Before long, the rolls are baked and the stew is bubbling over the fire, and they tuck in together.

It’s not perfect. It's not fine, even. But it will be, eventually, and that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> today on i love zolf smith: ANOTHER grieving piece, this time taken from me spiraling in bri's dms! i love zolf and wilde's friendship so much, y'all.
> 
> anyway, i swear i'll write a happy piece soon!! it'll happen!!


End file.
